rubyrubyruby

The shadowpath battle has been transpiring for some time. With all the sailing, shooting, boarding and repelling going on, the exact amount of time is nebulous. Squadrons under the command of Clive, Maggie and Merrisol have dealt significant battlefield altering blows to the Consortium ships. Boaz and Quinlan have lent wildly different skills and abilities, to sometimes similar purpose. There's been an amazing mix of adaptibility and tactics from people in positions of leadership, and of resilience against the odds and even savagery on tap.
The seascape is a gumbo, and like the surface of a witches' cauldron: An assortment of bleeding and burnt ingredients. There's no need for lanterns to sail by, as dozens and dozens of ships are burning, and weird lights in the ocean make long and short-lived bulbs themselves.
The Arks have always been the slowest of the fleet. Their method of propulsion never had the benefit of sails, and so they make easy targets to intercept. The height of their hulls makes them floating bastions. Silhouettes of people at the very top of the Arks do their best to cut away grapnel lines, and fire down upon those attempting numerous boarding actions. A number of Consortium troop ships that survived the pattern-walk are drunkenly grinding against one of the lead Arks and helping to bracket the massive ship. Kind of like a big old hotdog hugged in a bun that's too small. Ships hounding the Arks inevitably scrape and collide with the bigger hulls but are determined to give naval hugs. There's desperate actions to try and pry open the big side hatches of the Arks with grapnels and winches to get at its nougaty center.

RPG: Lhasa challenges a difficulty of 10. Lhasa chooses Resolve and the gifts SKL-SC, STY-PI, and STY-SW. Lhasa succeeds.

Support ships safely receiving the injured for now under the Fat Tiger's watchful eye, Captain Howler's two other ships, the swift Spicy Melissa and the heavily armed Big Sauce zero in on the ship that seems closest to cracking open the Ark and getting to its delicious chewy center. It's a big 'un, who has gained purchase on the Ark and is well on its way to opening those side hatches, while a steady stream of Consortium combatants attempt to climb up the Ark's sides. The Melissa zips ahead, so that she and the Big Sauce are at either end of the enemy ship, hooking on by rope and claw and blade, making to yank them away by any way possible. "Pry those bastards off the Ark before they get inside!" Lhasa calls out to the crew. She draws her cutlass and, once they're close enough, surges forward with the marines that clamber onboard.

Boaz is still mistified as well as a mix of ammused and horrified as the sea spits up sailors onto the decks of the three ships he's leading. This is how there is a wild smile on his face that is incongruent with eyes that show way too much white to be healthy or calm.
He notes a slowing of sailors being regurgitated and then none. Still he waits for a slow and raither painful count of ten, spoken aloud, then roars out in a voice that can be heard on the other two ships. "Man oop! Get dem dat came aboard ta help! Get yaselves armed and readeh! To da ARKS! MOOVE!" He paces down the length of the borrowed vessel and then back, picking up the exhausted men and women from the deck and urging them in gruff tones to find and fill a need. Every now and again looking aback up towards that distant and horrible three-legger thing and praying that the thing chooses not to come this way before they're all done.

Maggie can lend wind to sails, but cannot call up a tempest. She can send fire into the other ships. Her crew have been loading and firing their seige weaponry to great effect, but are starting to run low on ammunition. The order goes out to hold fire unless the hit is a sure thing. Even though the word goes out over the R.A.D.I.O, it is up to the different captains do make the determination when to ease up. Still, in a slow, ponderous wave from the Sea's Treasure to the Tail Spinner on one hand and Fisk's Fist on the other, the rain of flaming stones slows. To fill the gaps, archers step up. Soon, a wave of arrows, most carrying fire, arches over the turbulunt, seas. Standing on the foredeck, bedraggled, soaked in crimson rain, Maggie launches another few fire arrows into nearby ships. Dismissing the fire, she lets a spark or two trail upward into the chaotic sky. Her hands lower for a moment or two before one lifts again. She begins to gather wind around one fist, the air distorting in inward rushing spirals. As the ball of wind grows, she searches for a target, captain or ship or contraption. Something significant. Something telling. Something to let lose upon.

Racing for the Arks, the Merry Maurader leads a contingent of ships from Flame's command though the captain, a wiry whip of a woman, picks up a few others, those still mostly whole after their squads were broken on the Consortium's teeth. Their aim is to assist the big ships in any way that they can. Fighting against waves and tacking across the wind, captain Felicia Day aims to skirt the storm and pick up momentum on her aproach.

Still circling the Beast, and all her distressed defenders and angry admirers, the ships of the Bedlam squadron select and claim their quarry with a parting volley of crossbow bolts, as they peel away from the initial free-for-all. The vulnerable flank is arming up for vengeance now; those wicked javelins and volatile fire streams, and who knows what arcane attacks as yet unwitnessed. Deft maneuverability is no longer the posse's advantage, many now operating with half-intact sail rigging and crews. One, the Scarab, cannot escape enemy targeting in time, and sees her stern horrifically aflame as a screaming trail of pitch arcs onto the deck, killing all those stationed at the helm. The Bedlam breaks off pursuit of a runner, banking on a downswell to confront the offender before it can lob a death sentence at the Scarab. Braced at the rail, Merrisol gives the order that ballista-launches a glittering load of surplus teddy bears over the enemy. The parabola of fire is met prematurely and by some insane fluke, AKA Marty, the Consortium ships receive a backlash of burning rainbows upon sail and deck. Even if that had been the plan all along, Merri lingers in stark astonishment for some moments. Reaching up to fidget or swat at the back of his drenched shirt collar, he starts to call out for a course change to help evacuate the Scarab. He can't seem to stop groping around behind, like a bit of hot teddy bear fluff had fallen down his neck. "Bring us alongside her!" he yells again, before restlessly scanning the swollen horizons.

Ruby has legged it. Splits. Gonesville. Having gone over the side while her ships were pursued by a wolfpack of enemy ships, she's passed command to a surprised Bosun. There's some gawping at her leaving, and the poor fella left in charge has to flex some authoritarian muscles to keep people at their posts, even while they're turned to splinters or ripped to shreds. It's not the best time to play hot potatoe with leadership of a squadron. He really tries, but the situation is unfair and too heavy to surprise one with. Even the Bosun doesn't have time to see what befell Ruby's abandoning ship and screams out orders to keep making for the Ark.

The ship Lhasa leads a boarding action upon has most of its attention on the massive Ark they're trying to scale. That crew starts to notice something is amiss when grapnel lines are seeming to ~miss~, and instead are clonking on their ships rather than the Ark. Crossbow bolts are raining down from above and then a cheer does as well, as the Ark's defenders see Lhasa's ships coming to provide an assist. The enemy boarders are now caught between a Bonesaw and a tall place. That grouping of enemies now must turn and ironically defend themselves. They drop down or rush at Lhasa. The crossbows above sensibly stop to avoid friendly fire on that side.

Three-legged-thing in the distance has settled into a static squat on his massive stone pillars. The troubled clouds above him slow. Their swirling then begins to fluff and revolve in the opposite direction. The weather system becomes unanchored. Looking like Jupiter's great red spot, it sets off on its own merry cruise of the shadowpath at altitude, heading inexorably south-west.

Quinlan has finally done what he can to keep people alive in this crazy place. Enough to feel all right flying back up to Maggie's ship to see what's going on now. And whether he should set fire to the Duchess already.

RPG: Maggie challenges a difficulty of 10. Maggie chooses Resolve and the gifts BLD-OB, FIR-WR, SKL-OB, SKL-SC, STY-PI, and WIN-WS. Maggie succeeds.

RPG: Merrisol challenges a difficulty of 10. Merrisol chooses Wits and the gifts SKL-SC, STY-CC, and STY-PI. Merrisol almost succeeds.

The enemy ship attempting to board the Ark has a distinctive yellow hue along its hull, like a pale, sallow maple. The blonde ship's crew lets out a relieved gasp when arrows stop flying from above, only to yell out in violence and dismay at the wave of Howler's marines surging aboard. The crew of the Spicy Melissa do the same and scramble on board, a surge from either side coalescing in a churning mess of blows and glinting steel and blood. Lhasa and a few members of her crew hack their way through to reach the side of the blonde ship closest to the Ark and clear the way for the Spicy Melissa to wedge itself between. There's a deafening, mechanical shuddering, sustained scream, as the lucky sailor named Mint awakens the beastly machine called the B.O.N.E.S.A.W. with a flick of a switch and goes to town on the siege devices on the ship, ropes and gangplank and graplers and anyone else stupid enough to stand in his way.

RPG: Clive challenges a difficulty of 10. Clive chooses Force and the gifts SKL-AD, SKL-MC, SKL-SC, STY-PI, STY-SC, and STY-UE. Clive succeeds.

RPG: Lhasa declares she is consuming token fs4:
-------------------------------------------------------------------[ fs4 ]----
Author: Disillusion Held By: Lhasa
Date: Tue Jun 19 13:05:40 2018 Focus: 3
Title: Bone S.A.W.!
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Created via Begman Craftsman (BEG-CR): power-token special token-3 token-6 type-magic
Gift description:
Begman Craftsmen are capable of creating devices that are unreliable, but useful. A device can have an effect that works for the duration of a scene; it might have been intended to work longer than that, but something goes wrong, it runs out of juice, or it otherwise breaks down. It must always be mechanical in nature, and have some sort of explanation for how it works. This explanation need not be logical or make sense in any meaningful way, but to a Begman, this is engineering, or at least mad science, and should be treated that way (though in actuality, these devices are magic, and the gadgetry trappings are just a structure for containing that power, although a Begman will never see it that way). Visually, the technology should not be more advanced than roughly 1900 on Earth.
Such a device is represented by a rechargeable token, and the token must be expended when the device is activated. A 3-Focus token allows the equivalent of a chargen-available 5-point RPG physical gift's effect, or a typical 3-Focus recipe for something physical; a 6-Focus token allows the equivalent at 10-point and 6-Focus respectively. Examples of 3-Focus effects would be a scuba-type device allowing someone to breathe underwater, a mechanical suit granting immunity to fire, or a folding boat capable of unfolding to hold eight people. Examples of 6-Focus effects would be a helmet that gives someone keen senses, a device that allows someone to fly, or a mechanical suit that enhances someone's speed and manueverability to Jackie Chan-like levels. These devices are never bonus-granting.
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Secondary gift used: Begman Artificer (BEG-AR): power-token rechargeable special token-0 token-3 token-6
Gift description:
The difference between a Begman Tinkerer and a Begman Artificer is that the artificer's devices work reliably (at least to the limited extent that any such device works reliably). This allows a Begman Craftsman effect to be sustained for more than a scene, although each token use is still discrete to a set of events (for instance, for a sequence of underwater scenes constituting an evening of play). Use this gift as a secondary gift with BEG-CR as the primary gift.
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Secondary gift used: Cross-Shadow Science (CSA-SC): token-0
Gift description:
This character is capable of building devices that work across shadow. Such devices work regardless of the differences in physical laws between shadows, but they must have reasonably straightforward mechanisms as their base -- simple machines (such as levers and pulleys), mechanical components (such as gears and springs), pumps, and hydraulics. These devices are also resistant to mundane and magical tampering, and are more difficult to mundanely break.

This character is also capable of creating alchemical mixtures that work across shadow. Such mixtures are non-magical, but may have interesting mundane properties. For instance, creating a decent anti-freeze liquid, odiferous liquid, something that burns like kerosene, etc. are all reasonable. These mixtures do not have medicinal properties, nor are they combat-applicable; this cannot be used to create gunpowder, for instance.

The character's creations can be represented by a token.
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Token Description
Feast your eyes upon the next marvel in medical/defense technology! Yes, it is the crossover equipment category you never knew you needed so desperately! The Bone S.A.W. (Specialized Amputation Weapon)!

A specially crafted variant on stainless steel is used for the blade, which stretches a good foot in length while remaining a bit slender for unhindered slicing and dicing. Both sides of the blade are serrated, allowing it to be used in either hand or direction! The blade meets a polished brass box with two small trumpeted exhaust ports and a small, openable hatch for refueling and service. Attached to this, there is an intricately carved ivory handle.

Fire up the small steam engine in the S.A.W. and watch it come to life! The blade begins to oscillate back and forth, allowing a skilled wielder to make short work of any operation in a world where seconds make all the difference between life and death! The oscillation has been tuned at such a frequency as to feel like little more than a vibration to the user, presenting as a hum, and as such will allow for delicate work while not feeling unwieldy! This action, combined with the specialized metal of the blade, allows the user to cut through almost anything from limbs to wood and other metals like a hot knife through butter! Should they so need, it can even be used in defense as any other bladed weapon might and should certainly make any opponent think twice about crossing blades with them! One should always be mindful of the exhaust ports to keep them pointed away as an occasional bit of black smoke is a necessary requirement for such awesome power!

Occasional service will be required between uses. The blade must be inspected, fuel and water resupplied, and various components oiled to maintain smooth operation! Grandmaster Artificer Disillusion Valentino would certainly be more than happy to assist in such a task, of course!
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Disillusion's amendment at Tue Jul 10 15:35:11 2018:
An inscription has been added to the side of the motor housing:

My only hope is that this might help you save others in your new life as you once saved me with your music!

All my love,

Disi
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RPG: Lhasa used the following +token/use targets: Main Deck - Beast

With some pressure laying off one side of the Ark, the defenders can focus their fire on other areas. A bit of a second and third wind there as ammunition is gathered up and people try to assess the next worst threat. There's hardly any time to cheer on Lhasa's group managing to foil the attempts on their vunlerable side hatch. The Ark stays secure as Consortium would-be-boarders are now in melee and not faring well at all. The frightening noise from the begman device held by Mint is rather intimidating. Those that do try to put up a fight have great jagged shards where their cutlasses used to be. Some have ragged stumps where their favourite appendages used to be.

Boaz's trio of ships rips across the surface of the water, tacking to make best time towards the Arks. Yet when the trio gets close enough to the Beast and the sea raiders punishing the friendly ship Boaz's brows draw down.
He can see Merrisol's lending a hand but there is a new bunch of pacing as they get closer and closer to bypassing the fight on their way to the other.
Oversized hands claw at the air again and he lets out a frustrated animal snarl. "New Ordahs! Hit dem bastads on da ooposite side, eh!? Give signal! Damn me fer a fool but I'm gonna help me mum out..BLAST IT! Givem somethin' else ta think about!"
The cry goes up and signal lanterns are flashed as the borrowed ship breaks off from the other two only to be joined again by them heading towards the fight. Boaz pulls his sticks, keeping them in his off hand for now while stomping forward and getting a broken gaff from the deck. Hefting it a few times he rears back and throws towards the nearest enemy vessel as if announcing their presence.

The fight may be draining out of the Consortium ships and crews where Flame's ships have been battling. Pushing forward, the line holds now that the hole has been plugged. In addition to battering the enemy, the captains have orders to watch their sides. Still, the gasps of dying ships sucked into the drink, or collapsing under the relentless heat of fires that cannot be put out, or crackle-crunch into screaming, bloody splinters before surging upward on a swelling tide and sinking to join the chum below knock cavities in the chomping line moving inexorably forward.

A knot of Consortium ships, their crews decimated, their sides and belly's splintering, cluster around the seemingly abandoned Duchess. A captured ship might be a better berth than the cripples they sail now.

Bolstered by captain Shih's competant commanding of the Treasure, Maggie is given the grim luxury of surveying the scene around her. Spotting a red-headed mage zooming through the air toward her ship, she salutes her cousin with a flick of her free hand, then gives him a thumb's up and an angled point. The Duchess is that-a-way. With an entourage of hanger's on. Once that has been done, she chooses a fat and sassy Consortium ship. The accumulated wind is hurled toward it with as mighty a punch as she can manage.

Skittering across the waves, the Merry Maurader and her contingent of ships tries for the Arks still, but are cut off by a smaller group of Consortium ships. They turn to try and keep this threat from arriving to give those harrowing the Ark reinforcements. Have at thee!

The sea quadrant is a fresh disaster zone of floundering wrecks, and not quite favouring the Bedlam posse. In the end, nobody escapes the caprice of the alchemical conflagrations, whether it is smoldering sails and hulls from burning chaff on the breeze, or a full-on fiery trunk-javelin piercing the unfortunate sloop Crackers midships. Doomed, unboardable, she careens off along the swells while the flames spread rapidly, and sailors plunge over the sides rather than burn alive. Separated by roils of smoke and capsizing obstacles, the surviving squadron casts flares and calls out with disembodied echoes across the waves. The Bedlam and Scarab emerge from a head of black fog, the latter become an inferno that crews now desperately work to disengage before fire spreads out of control to the former. Judging by the sheer heat, there's no one left to rescue, and the Scarab recedes like a fiery apparition, fading away as she sinks.

Alone, seeking any point of reckoning, the Bedlam is set to meander for the hulking silhouettes of the arks, and all the swarming bits of fleet around them - that is, until Captain Merrisol staggers headlong across the deck, uncharacteristically losing his footing and going sprawling with a mad howl of anguish. A few officers begin to converge, but stop before the length of their tethers runs out, reeling back with uncertainty and shock as their commander's upper back seems to explode as though from something implanted beneath the skin. Grappling himself up by a fractured section of gunwale, Merri struggles to hold it together, at least mentally, as a dark substance rises in a solid coil or helix from the nape of his neck and escapes its corporeal nest with a pulsating tear. It gains velocity as it climbs, and blurs as it travels towards the region of sea riddled with reefs. Merrisol clings to the rail long enough to catch a glimpse, then crashes back to the deck hard.

Quinlan notes the signal, looks back...damn, that thing hasn't blown yet? Wow. He speaks the words of magic, lost on the winds, but they have the effect intended. It wouldn't have taken more than a spark to send the tar-painted, gunpowder-sanded, oil-soaked hulk of the Duchess ablaze. A Pathian whispering the words to create fire at it is just....fwoom.

There's a number of enemy ships converging on the two Arks as well. With Lhasa taking the pressure off the lead Ark, there's still the second Ark playing bumper cars with some of those beefy troop ships. While not as large as an Ark, they're probably just crammed with ground troops spotted earlier via the plateau way back in shadow.

Consortium around the undefended Duchess send in a number of vessels to board her. The Trans-shadow faction has had ancient ships from Amber's shipyard in their fleets on previous encounters. Taking from an enemy they hold as imperialist reavers is a thing with them. So they sail up next to the Duchess to ascertain her seaworthiness when Quinlan triggers the trap. It is super effective! Their ships are too close when the fire and heat manifest dramatically, providing quite a lightshow. And it becomes bigger as the Consortium ships are additional fuel. Burning sailors dance upon their decks in a fatal jig, some running for the railing uselessly.

Bearing southwest of the Arks and bordering the edge of the lightning zone is a series of reefs that were nothing but hell for undersea craft, some stone arches are situated there. Looking like a partially risen snake's skeleton of wet obsidian, it's one of the least threatening things in the environment this day. Other than a navigational hazard of course. Torches are being lit there. Compared to the pyrotechnics of the battle, its a rather conservative bit of flame. Three squat barges and a Cibolan slaver ship risk the storm-tossed seas anchoring near it.

A fast sprint up to the Consortium fleet, a round of dancing and tight maneuvers, a hard Pattern Walk, followed by being dumped right into some of the wildest seas to play host to a fierce battle. Through all of these tests, the damaged, but bolstered mast of the Chimera has held strong. By now, she is moaning and creaking and complaining like all hell about the abuse she has suffered. Clive gives it a glance with a grim look, choosing in that moment to think of it more as a battle cry. "Just a little more. A little more and then ya get to rest." The sails are full of wind and the nimble ship is leaning substantially to the one side as she pushes as hard as she can. Sliding down a rope, Clive races back to the navigator and begins to point out the other ships also responding to the scuffle by the Arks while relaying the strategy on how best to join. Next, he moves to the signal lamp to issue orders to the Polsham and Indubitable; tuck in and form a battle line to assist the second Ark, make your shots count, watch the friendly fire.

Swooping through, the Chimera lets out her sails to even out and slow her speed. She opens up first with The Twins, a pair of Storm Canons, at range to get in a few volleys. While passing by at her closest, her crew looses a volley of fire arrows on the targeted troop ship. The other ships in the line follow suit, wielding ballistae and arrows alike against the troop ship. The last of the line to take her turn, the Polsham, comes to a stop beside the troop carrier, continuing fire in an effort to sink her or, at a minimum, reduce the number of viable troops there that might board the Ark. Captain Giles, ever the inspiring figure, is there at the railing with his Pointing Hand now in place to direct fire and point out ideal targets. Meanwhile, the Chimera and Indubitable continue on to get a look at the other side...

The Twins' unleashed lightning crosses the distance between ships with the power and speed of the skyborn variety. Without the defense of storm orbs, the impacts crack-a-crack and thunderclap, sundering great breaches in Consortium targets and making the vessels rock. The booming shockwaves making big Jurassic Park ripples. Ballistae bolts and arrows slam into the Troop ship. They sazzle with determination against wet hulls and lap eagerly at rigging and sails. Return fire comes from defenders, but with all these reinforcements coming in to help save the Ark, severing grapnels with the sound of giant lute strings being twanked, things are looking grim.
...For the Consorti...im.

The boarding effort blunted and with a melee on their hands, those meeting steel on steel with Lhasa's rescue party are giving their best. Their ride is under threat and they've all fallen into sweaty-tooth-madmen-mode. With the terrible Begman device creating a ripping background chorus, they throw themselves into the fight with hatchets and daggers. A swarthy mass of savage eyed sailors trying to go on the offensive.

With the last substantial clustering of resistance making their last gambits by the massive Arkships, the rest of the Cibolan path has been left a bloody alchemical brew of bodies and broken or burning hulls. The wolfpacks of Consortium ships trying to breach and scale the Arks have been thwarted by the arrival of multiple ships racing to intercept and engage. They have prevented a loss of either vessel. There's lots of floating things on fire that their crews wish wasn't on fire.
Ruby's reduced flotilla has been hounded so bad that the only reason there are floating ships there is due to her companions coming to risk their necks once more in her defense. Rear-Admiral over-the-side had left her flagship to an uncertain fate while she makes a hard choice elsewhere.
The Consortium fleet is fracturing and falling apart. Those not immediately engaged in life or death duels have heard the order to retreat by what leadership remains. Or they're taking a cue from seeing their allies try and get the heck out.

RPG: You show a message to MAG-AM (Maggie): Quite a lot of magical power is building to the southwest.

RPG: You show a message to SKL-DS (Clive and Mercier): There's a flash of danger sense trying to hit your spidey senses. It's not coming from the southwest (where weird swirly storm clouds are going) but rather the two traditional routes to-and-from this shadowpath. The exits.

RPG: You show a message to ANI-EM (Merrisol): Pour visibiliti. Oh no. Eels. Eels eels eels. Oh no. Go to the center. Yes. Stay away from sides. Sides so bad. Sides turn U in-2 sushi. Stay here. Go deep. Oh no. Deep bad 2. Maybe if we cluster we be safe. They get Kevin before me if I cluster. Hewwo Kevin, no. No room at center Kevin. You stay on outside of cluster. Yes.

RPG: You show a message to SKL-OB (Lhasa, Maggie, and Moxon): There's a running theme of things swirling towards the center of this battlefield. Nothing so strong as to draw in ships, but the clouds and wind, sea currents...They'll be seem to be seeping towards the southwest like soapy bubbles towards a drain when the plug is pulled in the bath.

The blonde ship's means of accessing the Ark's side hatch have been loudly and violently destroyed thanks to the Begman Bone S.A.W. wielded by a gleeful sailor named Mint Rose Freshman. This allows the Spicy Melissa to wedge itself between the blonde ship and the Ark with a shudder-inducing screech of hull against hull and plant herself there for now to prevent any other imminent incursions. The battle continues on deck, but the tide is resolutely in Howler's favor. What begins as a churning mass of swarthy, desperate fighters thins bit by bit as bodies are tossed over, holdouts cut down, and a few wise souls lay down their weapons. Lhasa is in the thick of it, slashing her way through until she is sure that the Ark is no longer in danger and their victory over the blonde ship is assured. Trying to think of next steps, she climbs up some rigging to look out at the Ark and what can be seen of the battle. She wipes at the sweat and blood stinging her eyes with the heel of her hand, and quirks a brow when she notices the strange current. Huh. Not much she can do about it now, is there? "Any prisoners get thrown down in the hold. Then disable this ship and its artillery. We have other targets," she yells out to her crew.

The Bedlam pitches with the surface swells while the deck crew is distracted with the herding of their newest casualty to the surgeon's table. Disoriented, staggering, Merri stares over the rail at one wave or the other and eventually zeroes in on the unquiet horizon which might be considered the epicenter of the storm. "Move inward, Sorcha. Inward. Join the cluster. Won't be much longer," he manages to drawl out to the ships' captain before a pair of burly sailors drag him down the hatch. There's another moment lost to confusion, and then order is restored on deck as the rest of the surviving squadron appear through the lifting smoke, and signals are given hurriedly to form a train and make for the Arks.

Moxon races up and down the deck of his ship, spreading the command: "It's a slim target, the weather's crap-- but you target her masts with everything you've got! Fire on my say!"

RPG: Martin declares that he has the Sense Greater Powers (PAT-SP) gift.

As is the way with war, the battle around Maggie's ships peeters out, then stops as the Consortium ships she has been pitting herself against begin to try and flee. It happens first gradually as a ship here and another there peel away and try to run for it. Soon, the volleys of arrows slow, thin and stop as all remaining vessels take a page from their fellow's playbooks and turn tail. Seeing it, Flame pauses to consider her options. The ships in her command are limping, weakened by violence and intent. She takes a moment to lean on the railing, both hands clenching the wood. Sadly, now is not the time to relax. Calling down, voice still powerful with the storm's blessing held in her blood, though it sounds weathered and faintly hoarse. "Captain Shih. Send what is left of Fist's contingent and the Tail Spinner's ships after them. The order was to kill them all." That last is said with an infinite weariness that can't quite be squelched. "We will bring whomever is left with us to the Arks." Pushing herself upright, she inhales deeply though that merely brings a frown to her brow as her eyes travel the sea and sky, trending to the Southwest. "Lieutenant Gums? Get on that Begman thing and warn whomever is listening. A great deal of magic is building to the southwest." For a moment, her gaze lowers and she plucks tentatively at the shaft of one of the arrows that have partially penetrated her body. Alas, it has healed into place and will need to be cut out. A sigh begins and ends, lost to the storm's uncaring chaos. This might just be a job for Bonesaw. Unless she gets tired of them and just wrenches them free.

The turn around to the other side of the embattled Ark has the crew of the Chimera scrambling to adjust the rigging. The sails catch a gust of wind and the main mast screeches more intensely than it ever had, punctuating it with a sudden crack. Clive's eyes widen with panic as his head whips around. Cupping a hand around his mouth, he calls out, "Loosen her up! Take a wider loop!" A look toward Barnaby is all that's needed to tell him to take the lead up above as he starts racing toward the stairs below. Along the way, something on the horizon catches his eye and he pauses there at the railing, staring off toward the pathways out of this place. Another look and a motion below is delivered to Barnaby to send him off to inspect the bits of the mast they can't see, then out comes the spyglass. Signals are going out, telling the Indubitable to take the lead and pull ahead in forming up.

RPG: You show a message to PAT-IP (Maggie): There's power building towards the center of this area. Feels like it's olde. Probably the Node (Pattern foo) laid down long ago. It isn't gone thankfully, but wasn't doing too spiffy since it was bruised and crippled last year. But there's power flowing back to it now, possibly coaxed through ritual (magic-sense analyse-power analyze-magic). It's giving the impression that once it's powered up, it'll be doing something.

RPG: You show a message to PAT-SP (Martin): Cosmically speaking, the shadowpath was not doing very well. It's tortured and crippled. There's Pattern foo revving up (Probably the Node because of where we are). There's an ~awakening~ quality to the place, cosmically speaking.

RPG: Maggie declares that she has the Analyze Magic (MAG-AM) gift.
RPG: Maggie declares that she has the Analyze Power (MAG-AP) gift.
RPG: Maggie declares that she has the Blood of Pathi (BLD-PA) gift.

The Consortium ships are definitely seeing which way the wind is blowing, battle-wise. Those without a hand directly around their necks or enemies on their deck are trying to disengage completely. Plenty of opportunities here for free shots as they turn tail. There's plenty who have a slim chance to get away at any sort of good speed, but better to try for the exits than stay and be slaughtered.

Three loud ~thunks~ come in sequence to fill the air. Sound like a giant nudging first one and then another granite block off a ledge to land solidly within a quarry. Winds follow the big swirly storm-spot in the sky, which does a high-altitude drive-by of the Arks. Its passage alters the weather gauge and drags short-lived whirlpools in its wake. Lightning is dying out in that danger zone. Spilled blood on deck or garment scintillates with vitality and acts like lemming dollops of mercury, trying to pool together and become T-1000s. There is a general pull of the substance towards that swirling sky-eye. And that cloudy danger-danish in the sky has a destination in mind to lurk over.

RPG: You show a message to SKL-OB (Lhasa, Maggie, and Moxon): Flashes of intense light to the southwest like flashbulbs going off. One. Two. Three. After-images of Cibolan themes trying to sear onto the retina -> If someone was saved from the sea, they very verrrrry momentarily have some jump-scare quality Cibolan spirit entity hovering over them hungrily. But it's fleeting, and gone so quickly.

Flame takes a moment to study the new weather patterns. With the focus on swirls and whorls, it reminds her of an ancient painting she studied while touring with Martin in the dim and distant past. A faint wince heralds... something. Her eyes are again drawn toward the southwest and she frowns, "Lieutenant. See if you can pass word that something has begun a ritual over there. I can't tell if it will benefit our folks, but no one should be caught off guard. Might be the node powering up. That is sort of what it feels like." Might as well use Begman terms, such as her understanding of them are. She glances down at the woman running the R.A.D.I.O then shifts her attention to the deck as some of the crew, those pulled from the sea, startle or flail at unseen somethings. "Huh. Shih? Please send anyone who jumped like that below for a mug of rum. Get others up here. Helm, keep your heading, but ware the sea and adjust as necessary. The currents are likely to get rough. Get to the Arks."

RPG: Moxon challenges a difficulty of 10. Moxon chooses Resolve and the gifts SKL-QM and STY-UE. Moxon succeeds.

Moxon schmoozes, micro-manages, directs and practically chants: "Masts. Gone. Go, people, go-- bring 'em down. Send 'em to hell. I want. That ship. Listing like a dying caribou." This as he frenetically assists, stomping and cursing and running from job-to-job...

Clive doesn't like these thunks. He doesn't like the sudden shift in the wind. He most certainly doesn't like the look of this perilous pastry in the sky. His hand holding the spyglass falls slowly as he tracks the movement and hangs there until he begins seeing the flashing lights of the relayed R.A.D.I.O. communications. Pursing his lips, he stomps on the deck and calls down the stairs loudly, "Hurry it up! Brace whatever ya can! I got a bad feelin' about all this!" Looking toward the nearest crew members he points off at loose pieces of railing and even some from other ships that are laying about, "Lash anything decent to the mast right quick! I wanna be ready to haul ass as soon as we need to! You! Signal the others and tell 'em to form up around the Arks. Take any free shots ya can along the way, but don't go out of yer way!" With that, he's off to put his back into preparations to try and survive a potential escape.

The Bedlam and her posse leans, then turns against the force of the winds, and their crews are especially thankful for their rope belts when things and people and things that used to be people are dragged from the decks as though by unseen hooks. Schlorping away through gaps in the hull or gunwales in a manner that puts the finishing touches on the group PTSD the surviving crew will be dealing with for weeks and months to come. They are passed by enemy ships that managed to break through Triskelion lines, but can do little more than fire off what salvos they have prepared, but none are sunk. Rather than give chase, the squadron seeks the comfort of the cluster, such as it is, and loosely forms up alongside one of the ponderous arks.

Martin appears to have survived the Bedlam's pitching and crashing against waves. He takes a hot minute to disentangle himself than almost wishes he didn't once he sees the horrible things happening below and scrambles up the rigging. If it comes down to it, he can fight from here, but he does not want to get caught up in the mess below. "Ahoy!" He calls sharply at Merrisol to let him know that he's alive, but he doesn't see a bunch of debris from one side of the ship heading in his direction poised to make sure his safe spot is not so safe anymore. He may have to let go. "Uh oh..."

At the sight of the Consortium retreat, the other three ships in Howler's posse, the Vanilla Bean, the Cocada and the Fat Tiger, change course for a rendezvous by the Ark, making good speed. As the thunks resound loudly in her ears, Lhasa is urging her crew off the blonde ship, now a useless husk without working sails or rudder, cannons sinking their way to the bottom of the ocean. She does not miss the strange behavior of the sky, and the blood pooled on the deck and splashed on her arms. "Huh," she says softly to herself, and when a few of the others look to her in consternation at the sight, all Lhasa can do is shrug her shoulders, confounded. Yeah, I don't know either. "Prepare for the worst, friends. Parting shots if you've a mind to, but priority is to send the injured below, strap down whatever you can." she calls calmly to the others as she goes back to the Big Sauce with the others. She takes the helm, wrinkles her nose as if there's something foul in the air, and wipes at her spectacles with the hem of her shirt, squinting all the while. On her command, the Sauce and the Spicy Melissa disengage from the blonde ship, which is pulled gently away by the current, but stick to the Ark. In a lower voice she says to Mint, "Minty, I might be required for doctoring duty, stand by to take over if that happens."

The surge spilling outwards from the southwest is quite the slice of cake, and the number of layers depends on how sensitive is your palette. The circumference of waves that floods out follows the winds. Growing in strength as they go. Being lashed to something and having one's ships sheltered or ready to ride out the phenomena do best.Hereople thrashing in the water, carried off by bad luck, or yet to be saved...they flail and try to stay afloat. The seas have turned nearly opaque. Some struggle towards bits of floating wreckage, or the drifting hulls of crippled ships yet to fully sink. A series of these bobbing sailors swim for one such vessel and then stop, sputtering. Before them, a length of wrinkled forms linked together lurch blindly from the sea and flop over its fractured deck. ~schhlep whud~ This is repeated in many other locations where some still claw for salvation. Screams from those threading water who haven't yet drowned. A fumbling brush of something below the water against an ankle or torso. More panic and thrashing as corpses are wetly hugged and pulled below. Corpses at first, and then the struggling.

Struggling against the turning of the winds and twisting of the seas, Flame's straggled remnants of the Triskelion fleet tack across the tides toward the Arks. The Merry Maurader, fresh from new kills sails into formation near the Sea's Treasure. Word is sent to the Fist and the Spinner to abandon the chase and form up. Acknowledgement is flashed back from first one, then the other. But the ships that hove into view are battered, but not beaten.

Taking a spyglass from captain Shih, Flame first uses it to search the sea and sky, wincing back when a monsterous chain of whatsis wriths up from the sea in front of her. The magnification makes it appear to be flopping onto her own deck. Lowering the glass, she squints in that direction, "Watch for... Uh... Those things." Her mind seeks a suitable moniker and can't come up with anying. "Human chains." Close enough. As they draw closer to the rest of the fleet, she lifts the glass again. This time, she scans the ships nearer to the Arks, searching for... someone. Not seeing that someone, she lifts her left hand, wedding ring flashing and sending up a small, dancing fireball once more.

Merrisol returns from belowdecks, walking on his own but perhaps the ship's doc wasn't done with treatment. A hurried wrapping made of scavenged cloth awkwardly binds around his neck and shoulders as he emerges into fresh chaos and a change of locale. The Bedlam posse, minus a few, has reformed and rejoined with other parts of Triskelion, like survivors clinging and just waiting for it to be over, one way or another. Ignoring the rope urged at him by an officer, he veers up to the aft deck and gets one arm wrapped around the trysail rigging while he surveys the deck first for a quick headcount. Spotting Martin, he waves the prince down from whatever unsafe thing he's probably engaged in, then pivots to scan the other ships. He sees a spot of flame, stares, and gives a hopeful salute. And then his arm drops heavily as he catches sight of the macabre lines of the drowned and long-lost... fishers of men. He manages an exhausted grunt and palms salt and grime from his face. "...This bloody node."

RPG: Martin declares that he has the Three-Dimensional (SKL-TD) gift.

Instead of being beaned by the debris, Martin sees the trajectory as a convenient way to get somewhere safe. He jumps, skids and flips, displaying mad aerial skills while he attempts to valiantly to look like he meant to be doing what he's doing. He uses the debris to surf his way down the deck before landing inelegantly next to Merrisol as he tumbles off it. There isn't a scratch on him except maybe some rope burns and torn clothes in inconvienent places. "This node is a right PITA." He huffs conversationally as though there isn't an insane amount of madness happening. He almost uses Merrisol as a crutch to pull himself upright, but notices the bandages and teeters slightly until he manages to right himself.

Things disappear below the sea with greater frequency. It is selective. Those that are stubbornly trying to delay death, and far from assistance, are helped in a manner of speaking. Bloop and a gone under. Those that were saved from the water and safely secured aboard a ship ~are~ safe, but develop a haunted look. Real thousand yard stares seeing glimpses of a strange road ahead that's been diverted from a shorter offramp. What could be in store for them in the days or years to come? Perhaps not a profession on the sea. Sometimes getting a strange sensation come over them if they try to stare overlong at the sea while near the railing of a ship. And needing a firm grip on that railing, just in case, the vertigo comes, and with it the urge to give in. To fall in or vault overboard. Having cheated a promised final embrace, there's an unsaid claim on their souls that feels a little cheated.
Apart from accumulated smoke of all the burny things, the skies are dismissing their troubled churning clouds. There's nothing holding them in such tight tortured knots of force anymore. The angry boil is dissipating like a drop of blood in a bucket of water. The seas themselves are leveling out after the plucking and pulling has combed amongst the dead and dying. A final curtain call on those sacrificed to Cibola. Those who risked routes out of the shadowpath when the surge happened can serve to be subjects of tavern tales and late-night stories for a good long while. Some of the survivors here will make sure of that. Perhaps a new breed of ghostships and vessels that slip between realms and fall through the cracks of reality. What manner of strange things may soak into the decking and timbers of those damned things.

Reparations have been made. The shadowpath is once again appeased.